We picked up the mail this evening and The Pony read me the return addresses.
"Here's one from Slate. And one from American Family. And one from Edward D. Jones. And one from pmlajaysmthtn."
"What? What was that last one?"
"One from pmlajaysmthtn."
"Say it slower. I didn't get it."
"Pmeluh J. Smithton."
"What? Camilla? J. Smithton? When did someone else get elected? That sounds like--"
"Not Camilla. Pmeluh. The county collector."
"That's what I thought. It's our tax receipts. But that's not her name. It's--"
"No. That's not it. Spell it."
"Ha ha ha. No! Puh-MELL-uh!"
"Um. That is pronounced PAM-uh-luh."
"No it isn't! You never hear anybody being called PAM-uh-luh!"
"I'm sorry to tell you, Mr. HAR-BRINGER of Spring, that you will most likely be PEE-nal-ized if you call some girl that at college. There you'll be, walking up to a girl from your class, saying, 'Hello, Puh-MELL-uh. Would you care to join me for a bite of supper in the dining hall this evening?' And she'll keep on walking, not even look at you, because her name is obviously not Puh-MELL-uh, but rather PAM-uh-luh. And you'll think she was snobby and rude and hurt your feelings on purpose. When in reality, she didn't even know you were talking to her. Because her dang name is pronounced PAM-uh-luh. Not freakin' Puh-MELL-uh!"
"That's not going to happen. Nobody names their daughter Puh-MELL-uh these days."
"That's RIGHT! Because nobody EVER named their daughter Puh-MELL-uh!"
SOMEBODY needs to get his nose out of a laptop, his butt off of the couch, and climb to the front seat of T-Hoe and experience life in the real world for a while.